


Peach

by supersoakerx



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: A poem, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22830307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: Paterson has his peach and eats it too.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You, Paterson/Reader, Paterson/You
Kudos: 32





	Peach

“I wrote something for you.”

His voice startles you and you gasp, head whipping around, searching for its source. You were sitting on Paterson’s favourite barstool at the counter, where he eats his breakfast, researching something on your laptop. You relax when you see it’s him, of course it’s him, it will only ever be him, but something in his eyes makes you want to tense your thighs together.

You smile sweetly at him. “For me? What did you write for little old me?” You close your laptop and swivel in your seat to face him.

He huffs a laugh, looking away from you for just a moment before looking back, his eyes now serious, dark, on fire. He pauses. He takes a breath. “Come here.”

You cock your head at him, your eyes squinting just a little. This isn’t like him, you think. You slip off the barstool, and tilt your head to the other side now, considering him, looking him up and down. What did he write for you?  
His head is bowed just slightly to look at you, dead in the eyes, boring into you. He is unrelenting.

You take a step forward, and immediately-

“That’s it,” voice pitched low, deep, “Come here, baby, not much further now.”

You crack a smile, the corner of your mouth pulling up on one side. You’ll entertain this, you’ll humour him, sure. You take a few slow steps towards him, eyes locked on his, stopping just outside arm’s reach. “You want me, hm?” You spread your arms out to the sides, and lean in. “Come and get me then,” and you whisper, “baby.”

He leaps for you instantly, grabbing one of your wrists and pulling you to his chest. “Hmmmm,” he growl-hums, your perfume filling his nose, your body pressed all up against him. He wraps his arms around you, gripping his own wrists behind your back, locking you in. “You like making me wait for you?” He looks down at you, his eyes dark and gleaming wickedly. “Because I’ve waited all-fucking-day for you, my little peach.” He squeezes you in his forearms, before splaying his fingers out over your backside, covered by your clothes. He grips the flesh of your ass cheeks, harder and rougher than usual, pulling you even closer to him, even grinding you against him a little, you think, and it makes your eyes flutter.

“Your little peach, hm? All day, really?” You push him, wanting to see where this goes. It’s a risk, but he’s got this look in eyes that says he wants to be pushed, wants you to push him, he needs it. You bite your lip.

He groans, “all day,” and it works.

He walks you back to the dining table, peppering kisses all over your face and neck, mumbling in between, “all – day – all day – long – the bus – walking home – all day.”

Your backside hits the dining table with a small thud, and he groans again, gripping both sides of your waist in his big warm hands and hoisting you up onto the flat surface. One hand comes down to grip your thigh, his fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with you. His other hand forces something into yours, it’s paper, folded in half and then half again, and curved a little, like he’d been holding it in the palm of his hand for a little while.  
“Read it,” he breathes, smothering your neck with kisses, pulling your t-shirt down by the neck to lay kisses to your chest as well. His hands spread out all over your back, gripping you and pulling you closer, as close as you could be, your bodies almost flush together.

“Baby, I-“ you start, confused, gripping onto his bicep with your free hand. Is this what he wrote, thrust into the palm of your hand? And he wants you to read it, now? His mouth was growing more and more insistent, licking and sucking, small little moans escaping him. God, you were getting wet.

“Read it honey.” It’s desperate, spoken too quickly, too forcefully. He cups your face in his hands then, nuzzling your nose with his for a moment, before pulling back to look you in your eyes. “Honey, please, read it for me.” He gives you a pleading look, eyebrows all pulled up and eyes big, flicking between yours, and a small, closed mouth smile graces his lips, and you fucking melt.

“Ok, Pat. Ok,” you open up the folded paper and he’s attacking you again, his hands gripping your thighs, your waist, your back. He kisses your cheeks, your neck, your ears, your chest. He’s frantic. He’s desperate. There’s no chance in hell you’re reading this paper.

He stops suddenly. “Wait, wait, honey, up,” he’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling, and you feel him tugging at your shirt. You smile at his neediness as you hold your arms up over your head. He tugs your shirt up and over and off, throwing it who knows where, and the sight he sees before him stops him in his tracks.

It’s you. It’s all you, always. Sitting up on your dining table, legs spread to fit him between you, skirt bunched up near the tops of your thighs. When did he do that? Your chest is flushed, rising and falling with your quick breaths. Your pretty bra cups your breasts beautifully. Your face is flushed, your hair is a mess. 

He’s throbbing for you.

“Please, honey, I can’t wai-“

“I know, baby, it’s ok,” you soothe him. “I’m gonna read it now, ok?”

“Ok,” he drops to his knees. “Ok, honey,” he pushes your skirt up, bunching it around your waist and holding it up with one hand. “Hold, please.” You hold onto your bunched up skirt with your free hand, his paper in the other. If he just undid the buttons… but he’s too far gone.

He grips your thighs with his hands, and gently eases your legs open.

You look down at him, raising an eyebrow. 

He looks up at you, and that stupidly beautiful pouty face is back. The one you cannot resist. Especially not when he plants little kisses to the tops and insides of your thighs. And definitely not when he spreads your legs further, presses his face right into your panties, and takes a long, deep, inhale.

“You smell so good, honey,” he nuzzles into your core with his nose, his fingers flexing and squeezing your thighs again. “I can’t-you smell too good (Y/N), I want-“ he brushes his nose and lips along your panties, letting them dip into you, letting them soak right through. He moans into you, moans right between your legs, hot breath ghosting over your clothed pussy. He can’t help it, he snakes his hand down to palm at his dick, it’s long and thick, all filled up with his need.

“I’m aching, honey, please,” he’s all but whimpering now. He is truly delectable like this.

“Paterson.” You bring him back into reality. “Stand up, baby.”

He stands, and his eyes and his cock and his clenched jaw and fists make you want to fuck him into next week. But something serious is happening now, something big. You drop your skirt, and place the paper next to you on the table.

You unbuckle his belt without looking. You’re staring into his face, fucking him with your eyes. You unbutton and unzip his pants, and they hang there, hang on his perfect hips. You lick your lips and his eyes flick down to follow your tongue. He gulps.

You hook your fingers into his trunks and his pants and his belt, and swiftly pull everything down to his mid-thigh. His cock springs free, glorious and big and leaking. You look down and see a little wet patch on his trunks, where he’s dripped onto them. “Poor baby,” you coo, “You’ve been like this all day?”

He nods, pouting.

“You want me to make it better, baby?”

He shakes his head.

“No?” You furrow your brow, just a little. A little confused by what’s happening here.

“I want to undo these, take this off.” He fingers one of the buttons on your skirt. The whole thing is held together by buttons, from the high waist to where it ends at your knees.

“Ok, baby. You can do that.” He nods, and starts popping the little buttons out of their holes. “I’ll start reading this now, ok?” You gently prod him, reminding him what all this was about in the first place. You didn’t need to do that though. He hadn’t forgotten.

“No! No wait, just a second,” he starts. He finishes with the buttons and your skirt falls to your sides, onto the dining table. He hooks his finger into your panties, but not at the waistband. He grips the side of the crotch, rolls the wet material between his thumb and forefinger. He raises his brows to you, as if to ask if he can take these off too, and you nod, shifting your hips so he can manoeuvre them off you.

You sit before him in your pretty, lacy bra. And nothing else. 

He sinks to his knees again. “Ok,” he sighs, gripping your thighs, spreading you for him, “Now you can read it.” He starts kissing and licking and sucking at your thighs all over again. He’s greedy, he wants all of you all at once.

You open the folded paper and see a few handwritten lines. Your eyes light up, tears springing into them unbidden, when you read the title, a single word – “Peach”. Paterson watches your face, his kisses getting closer and closer to your hot, wet core.

You read the first line:

_“You are like when I’m peeling, slicing, cutting a piece of fruit.”_

And you feel a long, wet stripe licked up your slit.

“Mm! Baby!” You weren’t expecting that. You move the paper out of your line of sight to Paterson, and he’s looking up at you with a cheeky glint in his eyes. You’d bet he was smiling, if his mouth wasn’t so busy laving at your cunt. You card your fingers through his hair and his eyes flutter closed. He was lapping up your slick from where it leaked out of you, his palms keeping your thighs spread open. He adjusted his big hands just a little, and his thumbs gripped onto the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, spreading your lips open for him.

You were moaning now, breathy sighs leaving you, mesmerised by his mouth working you over. His eyes flicked back up to you, and you remembered your task.

“Mmm, sorry baby, let me-mmm,” you moaned for him again, fingers grazing his scalp and grasping his hair, “let me read.”

He nods, and presses tender little kisses and licks and sucks all over your pussy, your inner thighs. He’s backing off. For now.

You concentrated, and read the poem Paterson wrote for you.

_“Peach  
You are like when I’m peeling, slicing, cutting a piece of fruit.  
I want the sweetness and the snap and the undoing.  
You are sweet, juicy, and delicious.  
You dribble down my chin. You make a mess of me.  
When I open you up, when I seek your sweetness, I see you and I smell you.  
I fill my eyes and lungs with you.  
I want to lick you up, taste you, savour you on my tongue.  
I want to suck on you, swallow you, ingest you.  
I want to eat you, slowly, with my whole mouth and my whole being.  
Devour you hungrily, like I’m starving.  
And I am.  
For my peach.”_

His tongue was gliding up your clit now, licking from the bottom and dragging up over the top. Repeatedly. Constantly. Like that was all he could do.

“Baby, your poem,” you moaned, you couldn’t stop yourself, “so, so good, honey, and all,” you gasped, “all for me?”

“Mmmmhmm,” he sealed his lips around your clit and hummed, he fucking hummed, and it sent shockwaves through you.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking good to me baby, God, I love your mouth on me, yes, yes, fuck, Paterson,” you were gripping onto his hair for dear life, rocking your hips onto his face. He absolutely adored you like this, all high pitched and breathy, whispering his name at the end of a long string of filth. He loved giving this to you. Loved eating his fruit.

He nibbled at your little bud, relishing in your little squeaks and long, drawn out moans. He groaned into your heat. God, he wanted to bury his face in your pussy all the time.

He brings one of his hands over to your slicked up entrance, and worked his thumb into you. “Mmmf, you’re so hot and wet inside, honey,” he speaks into your cunt, words slurring as his lips brush over your slit, his breath fans over your clit.

You grip his hair, shoving his face back onto you, and he licks and laps and laves at your cunt immediately. “Oh, yes, fuck,” you squeak, “put your fucking mouth on me and don’t ever take it off,” you’re being wild with him now, pressure and pleasure building deep in the pit of your stomach.

“Yes, baby, lick my clit, mmhm,” and he does, groaning and moaning into you, his cock pulsing and weeping more little pearls of cum. You can’t help yourself. “Fuck, yes, you’re s-so good, suck on my clit now, go on, suck on it, baby, right into your pretty little mou-“

You can’t even finish your nonsense, Paterson’s mouth rips a searing moan from your chest. He’s sucking your clit like it’s a fucking lollipop.

You were so close, now so so close. His thumb was rocking in and out of you, and if you just had a little bit more, just a tiny bit more, you’d cum, you’d cum all over him.

“Fffingers, fingers,” you chant, “Pat, f-fuck me with your fingers and I’ll cum all over your fucking f-face-FUCK!”  
You squeal when he rams two thick fingers deep into your cunt, finding your special spot in record time. He’s pumping his fingers in and out so quick, it almost blinds you. You fist his hair harder, watching his fingers disappear inside you while he sucks on your clit and pulls on it with his lips. And then, then, he flicks the tip of his tongue back and forth across your swollen little bud, left and right with the hard tip of his tongue, and you snap tight, then explode, coming, coming hard, your orgasm ripping through you and stealing all the air from your lungs.

Your legs clamp around him and shake, and he’s watching you intently, watching you unravel, watching for every way your body surrenders to your bliss.

When you stop shaking and relax your legs so that little tremors can roll their way out of you, you open your eyes and Paterson’s face comes into focus. You run your fingers through your hair, pushing it out of your face, and beckon him up to standing.

“Come here,” you husk. You want to suck on his bottom lip.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t move. “There’s so much juice down here,” he looks down at your sopping pussy, swipes his tongue along his lips, tasting remnants of you. He flicks his eyes back up to you, “so much more for me.”

You smile, lean down, and run your thumb along his chin to collect all your cum and all his spit that dribbled down. You hold your thumb out to him. “Suck?”

He does. Oh, he does.


End file.
